After Winter
by Pale Treasures
Summary: Finnick is gone. Annie gives birth to their son, and slowly tries to pick up the pieces on her own. One shot, canon.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins does.

**Rating: **K+

**Author's Note: **There's probably something like this out there already, but I just needed to write it, because Finnick/Annie was my Hunger Games OTP and I just can't wrap my head around the sheer pointlessness and stupidity that was Finnick's fate (and, consequently, that of Annie and their son). Ideally, they're, all three of them, living happily ever after in some corner of my mind, but since I wanted to explore Annie's thoughts in the canon!verse... there's this. The text flows oddly at times, but I hope you enjoy it.

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**After Winter**

She had always thought that, when she found herself expecting her and Finnick's first child, she would experience the deepest joy; she anticipated his body curled up protectively against hers, his hand resting on her belly, softly stroking it, establishing a silent, one of a kind language with their baby, soothing him, letting him know he was there for him. She would have felt no fears with Finnick by her side, because he would be sure to tell her how great a mother she would make, how she could do this, how strong and capable she was. With him, she would not have had a moment's doubt. She would have believed him. Because that was what she did when she was near him, when he was near her, she believed him, whatever it was he told her. If it passed his lips, it must be true.

Things never happened the way she dreamed of. Both the good and bad ones; she had learned the news of her pregnancy with a flat, weary disbelief, failing to recognize the faintest flicker of tender awe at the heart of it. If Finnick had been with her, they would have both rejoiced, and her insecurities would have paled compared to her joy and hope. Finally, they could be a family. It seemed more than she could believe, far more than they both had believed could happen at some point.

Nor did she react to Finnick's death the way she was certain she would have. To this day, she was still surprised by her own response. To this day, it seemed vaguely like a misunderstanding, a mistake, a terrible joke, even. How could Finnick have been taken away from her? How could Finnick, who was so strong, who had survived everything and shouldered both his and her troubles almost effortlessly, have died? How could someone like him die? She could not believe it; the disbelief turned into longing the more time passed and he failed to return. Still, she could tell herself she was waiting, that there was something to be grateful for at the end of the wait, and her patience, although worn, never wavered.

Maybe it had been for the better; maybe this muted confusion and determined, hopeful resolution had been better than the dark hole she would have otherwise been plunged into, the darkness, the blurring of every line, the forgetfulness of everything she knew. Because if she had been tossed into the abyss, if she had curled up at the very bottom of it, no one would have been able to tear her out of it. If Finnick wasn't there to do it for her, then no one else would have managed to.

Her pregnancy seemed somewhat like a mistake, too, something that had been destined for somebody else but had ended up happening to her. Still, even in her dazed emptiness, in her long, waiting days, she cherished that invisible presence, that shadow of someone new, and instinctively felt a tiny swell of gratitude for it. A part of her was aware, even if most of her wasn't, that this was someone to love, someone to brighten her days, someone to make her life worth living after the one person who had held such meaning before was gone.

Finnick would have loved to be a father. He would have loved that more than anything. And he would have loved her all the more for giving him such a blessing.

She couldn't think too much, because there was still the possibility that the bemusement would shatter and a dam would burst in her, and every dark, rotten thing in her would come gushing out and refuse to be healed, forever, now. All she could allow herself, sometimes, was feeling the words resonate in her mind for longer than usual. _Finnick is dead. Finnick is dead._ _Finnick. Is. Dead._ _Dead._

_Dead_.

She turned every letter inside out, grasping its meaning, frightened by the clarity of it. The words had been blunt before and now they were sharp, filled with an unsettling purpose. Anything other than that, for longer than that, was too much, and she, purely out of instinct, knew better than to dwell on it. She knew it wasn't just her, now. There was someone else to think about. That was a better help in keeping her in check than anything else could have been.

The day their little boy was born, she felt no pain, or recalled none. How could there be space for pain, when she was so close to meeting her son, when she was so profoundly aware that Finnick wasn't there to hold her hand and wait to meet him too?

It was over quickly. It was easy. She didn't expect it. She didn't expect a lot of things. She didn't expect her whole life. She realized it, then. Only her brief time with Finnick had seemed real; only that had truly belonged to her. It was bright and warm and vivid, and her fingertips could recall the heat and texture of it as they stretched out to close around the flesh of her memories. Slowly, all by herself, she learned she could begin to distinguish what was real from what was not. How could something so dazzling not be real, compared to the broken gray blur on the edges of her vision, sadly swirling past her - the blur that was everything else?

This, her baby in her arms, the marvel of his little warm body enclosed in the pale fragility of her arms, didn't seem wholly real either. But… there was color in it. And when she looked down at him and stared in wonder at the perfection of the finished features, the wispiest suggestion of ginger hair on the rounded skull, and the furiously roaming, awed eyes, with a droplet of sea-green nestled deep in the milky blue orbs, something opened up in her heart. For all this, she knew it must be real.

She didn't hear herself speaking to him at first. But the words came, startlingly even and peaceful. She almost started at the sound of her own voice when it finally dawned on her. It felt as though she'd been a mute before this moment.

"There, little guy," she said, gently rocking him. And his eyes wandered up to her, bulging with wonder and shock. "Your daddy isn't here, but he _sees_ you, somewhere out there, I _know_ he's looking at you, and I know he loves you so much. He would have been so happy to know you're here. He would have loved you _so_ much."

For the first time since Finnick died, a crack slipped alongside her throat, breaking the steadiness of her voice, and her eyes swam with tears, and she tasted their blue saltiness before they even touched her lips. But the tears recoiled and her voice soon steadied again. Now, there's someone else she must think of, and she must be strong for him. If Finnick were here, he would have been proud of her. He would have smiled, and said how strong she was and how much he loved her.

"And I'm here too… I'm here too, my little Finn."


End file.
